Saturday and Sunday
(what happened on Friday?)
Well, I’ve arrived at my winter estate, where I’ve received a surprise. I found my son there, who I thought was dead. I could have sworn my wife told me at some point that he died of some childhood disease; nevertheless, there he was. I suppose it was glad news, or it was until I found out the little swine had helped himself to the better part of my opium. Oh well, I guess he’s entitled considering I gave him up for dead.
Finding my son, whose name escapes me, reminded me that I should probably send a missive to my wife. Now that the Cabral Society is seeking my head, they may try for her life in some wrongheaded attempt to take advantage of my non-existent filial devotion. I assigned the task to my assistant Lucretia, which may prove difficult as my wife is currently travelling. She has become preoccupied with a nihilistic circus group called Dread Novello. We saw them perform months ago and I thought it was utter bull-buggery, but Lady Bradley was so taken with them that she became their patron and even took to the road with the troupe, the wanton harlot. I have no clue where she is right now, so Lucretia will have to track her down.
I attempted conversation with my son, which proved halting at best; spending seven years in isolation doing opium and interfering sexually with the livestock has not improved his social skills. I could have sworn I’d visited the winter estate at some point in the last seven years, but I never noticed that he was still alive. Oh well, I’m usually in such a drugged stupor when I visit that I could see Abraham Lincoln and my father engaged in a ‘Dutch door’ with a rhinoceros and think nothing of it.
No matter; my cook, Colonel Valdinov, is preparing stuffed pheasant for dinner. I suppose I’ll retire down to the river for some dynamite fishing with my groundskeeper, Holtz. Perhaps this contract on my head from an insane assassin cult will give me the excuse I need to relax and get back to nature.
Well, I’ve arrived at my winter estate, where I’ve received a surprise. I found my son there, who I thought was dead. I could have sworn my wife told me at some point that he died of some childhood disease; nevertheless, there he was. I suppose it was glad news, or it was until I found out the little swine had helped himself to the better part of my opium. Oh well, I guess he’s entitled considering I gave him up for dead.
Finding my son, whose name escapes me, reminded me that I should probably send a missive to my wife. Now that the Cabral Society is seeking my head, they may try for her life in some wrongheaded attempt to take advantage of my non-existent filial devotion. I assigned the task to my assistant Lucretia, which may prove difficult as my wife is currently travelling. She has become preoccupied with a nihilistic circus group called Dread Novello. We saw them perform months ago and I thought it was utter bull-buggery, but Lady Bradley was so taken with them that she became their patron and even took to the road with the troupe, the wanton harlot. I have no clue where she is right now, so Lucretia will have to track her down.
I attempted conversation with my son, which proved halting at best; spending seven years in isolation doing opium and interfering sexually with the livestock has not improved his social skills. I could have sworn I’d visited the winter estate at some point in the last seven years, but I never noticed that he was still alive. Oh well, I’m usually in such a drugged stupor when I visit that I could see Abraham Lincoln and my father engaged in a ‘Dutch door’ with a rhinoceros and think nothing of it.
No matter; my cook, Colonel Valdinov, is preparing stuffed pheasant for dinner. I suppose I’ll retire down to the river for some dynamite fishing with my groundskeeper, Holtz. Perhaps this contract on my head from an insane assassin cult will give me the excuse I need to relax and get back to nature.
posted by Dash Bradley at 4:58 PM
6 Comments:
My dearest Dash, I fear the opium has taken its toll on your senses. Surely you meant marital, rather than filial, devotion? Or have you scandalously married your own dear mother? I would hate for you to gouge out your own eyes, as they are so expressive of your dark, dark soul.
Speaking of dark souls, I had the pleasure of Lady Bradley's company three months past when the Dread Novella troupe visited my humble village. If this in any way aids Lucretia in her quest, I am grateful for the opportunity to be of service.
Please rest assured that all of my resources are at your command in your fight against those dastards, the Cabral Society.
When you question my grammar, my dear, you probe deeply into waters best left undisturbed...
Oh bloody hell, you're right; I did mean marital. Where's my tennis racket? I must take out my frustrations on the servants.
Dang! Y'all are so smartlike! With your fancy book larnin'....
Oh, Lord Dashie, you have softened with age. I remember when the servants would feel the wrath of your croquet mallet. How kind of you to change to the tennis racket.
It's been days since we heard from you last, Lord Bradley. I fear the worst.
Please tell us the Cabral Society has not discovered your Winter Estate! Has your bastard son turned on you in revenge for your years of neglect? Did Holtz learn of your ill-advised love affair with his betrothed while he was boar hunting in Luxembourg?
Please set my fevered mind to rest. I can not rest until I know you are safe.
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